


A Dinner at Café Bohème

by Crowgirl, elizajane



Series: What Happened After (Two Men Walked Into a Bar) [2]
Category: Downton Abbey, Foyle's War
Genre: Comment Fic, Crack, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, First Dates, I Don't Even Know (Continued), M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6991111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Crawley (Lord Grantham) and Sir Alec Myerson share dinner before the theatre.</p><p>A.K.A. the self-indulgent comment fic we continue to have a sinful amount of fun writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dinner at Café Bohème

Alec Myerson stands in his room, studies his reflection, and wonders why the hell he's taking this much care for a night at the theatre.

He shoots his cuffs, glares at the tiny moth-nibbled spot in his collar, and does his best to readjust the material so it doesn't show too badly. He's sure Grantham is going to show up in something so far beyond his pay grade it isn't funny -- probably bespoke Savile Row and Oxford Street all the way if not Paris. No, on second thoughts, probably not Paris. Still: there's no reason Alec has to show up looking like...well, like the civil servant he is.

He finishes fussing with his collar, looks at himself again, and sighs. The last time he went to the theatre had been in --- 1935. Or possibly '36. Anyway, long enough ago that he'd had to ask what the current standard of dress was. He was probably lucky that black tie still fit him -- God only knew his job didn't allow for a lot of exercise. Some days the most he got was walking between his desk and the window.

He gives himself one last look, adjusts a collar stud, and turns away with a sharp sniff. If Grantham had wanted some kind of fashion plate for a companion, there were plenty of those in London.

Grantham's car turns up at Myerson’s address promptly at six. He's hired a cab, Alec notes, though he surely has a personal driver. It occurs to him to wonder if Grantham is trying to be _considerate._

Or could it be that the family is no longer as well off as Alec's surreptitious background research that morning had indicated? He makes a mental note to ask his secretary to put out a few lines of inquiry. Nothing that will be noticed, but it's always good to know which of the old families might be looking for infusions of cash. It's a pressure point often skillfully employed by those playing the long game in this shadow-war that's never entirely come to an end.

"Good evening!" Grantham says, stepping halfway out of the car with a slight bounce in his step. "We're in luck! I called 'round to Café Bohème and not only are they still in business, but they promised to save us a table for two. Shall we be off?"

oOo

It takes Alec until at least halfway through the meal to realize he's enjoying himself.

There had been moments over the past two days when he had seriously questioned his wisdom in accepting Grantham's invitation. After all, it wasn't like he knew the man very well; an hour or two -- or had it been three? -- spent chatting over Glenbogle hardly makes for a lasting friendship. But once the tickets were purchased -- and he'd done that rather automatically, following the scrawled note he'd left himself upon getting home that night -- cancelling would've meant throwing away the money and he wasn't about to do that.

Now, he's shockingly glad he hadn't. Grantham's funny, quite wickedly and entirely unexpectedly so. And if he's conscious of the difference between his standing and Alec's, it certainly doesn't show. The longer they talk, the more Alec becomes convinced that he isn't conscious of it -- he's dealt with politicians, spies, intelligence officials, and double-dealers of all kinds over the past twenty years and he'd stake his diamond cuff buttons on this man not being one of those.

oOo

‘...and then, there I was, standing most awkwardly before a painting of a nude I knew to be my daughter's lover, with the staid Lady Bartram right there to my left, peering at it through her lorgnette --’ Grantham mimics the gesture, exaggerating the squint of his eyes to make Alec laugh, ‘-- “Why Lord Grantham,” she says to me, “do you think the artist has gotten the buttocks quite right?” '

Alec chokes on his Cabernet Sauvignon, groping for his napkin while Grantham continues, laughing at his own story, ‘What was I to say? “Well, Lady Bartram, I can't speak from personal experience of the bottom in question, you understand, but my daughter may be able to advise--?’

Not for the first time, Alec wonders at the equanimity Grantham seems to display regarding his daughter's Lesbianism. Apparently, if the file is to be believed, passed on from the paternal grandmother -- though this had not become evident until some years after Sybil Grantham and Gwen Dawson's liaison had begun.

He sets his glass carefully down on the linen tablecloth, turning it slightly so as to have something to look at that won't betray his expression while he considers the possibilities of inheritance and whether like mother like son ... what the devil is Grantham trying to convey with his stories? It's been many years since Alec has felt quite so ... flat-footed in his efforts to read the person sitting across the table from him.

‘I say,’ Grantham says to the waiter who drifts into view a moment or two later, ‘did I see that Henri is offering that divine Crêpe Suzette again, now that the sugar rationing is at an end? Could we have two, please--and two of whatever brandy you think pairs best?’

When the dessert arrives, Alec takes a sip of the brandy -- excellent, of course -- before he asks the question. 'You seem -- remarkably -- at ease with your daughter's decisions.'

Grantham glances up at him, then sits back in his chair, absently sucking a bit of softened sugar off his thumb. He realises what he's doing, blushes slightly, and clears his throat, making a dismissive gesture with his free hand. 'Sorry -- I've got a dreadful sweet tooth. Mm -- yes, I suppose you could say I'm at ease with them. I can’t say my being not at ease with them would have made the slightest difference.'

'Ah.'

'You've never met Sybil, I take it.'

'Not that I'm aware of.'

Grantham makes a _hmm_ ing sound low in his throat and takes another thoughtful bite of crepe, then pushes the plate away with a self-conscious gesture. 'Yes, well, she's -- a great deal like my mother. She may ask my advice on something and listen quite carefully but she's just as likely to throw everything I've said straight in the bin and do something else entirely as she is to do anything I've suggested.'

'Still. Not every father would be happy to visit his daughter and her...' Alec can't find a word and waves his hand to indicate the gap; Grantham nods. 'Let alone attend her art exhibits and so on.'

Grantham shrugs. 'I haven’t got a record of impeccable decision-making in my life; I've hardly the right to tell her what to do. Anyway,' he leans forward, crossing his hands on the table and lowering his voice slightly, 'Not every member of Her Majesty's government would be happy with a department where half their employees are regularly engaged in illegal activities.'

Alec snorts. 'Be fair: it's more like two-thirds.'

oOo

Robert Crawley watches Myerson pick up his own dessert fork and watches him neatly separate a bite of crepe from what's left on the dish that Robert's pushed toward the middle of the table. Dinner is starting to settle and his stomach is protesting the shellfish in a roux reduction he'd rashly ordered.

Myerson eats appreciatively and economically, a man used to identifying a short window of time in which to consume any given meal between one obligation and the next. Robert finds himself wondering what the man's background is. He knows precious little about him, apart from the fact he'd served in North Africa at the very end of the Great War, then taken a first in Political Economy at Oxford -- Christ Church -- and joining the civil service. Robert doesn't doubt he's been ... vetted between his departure from the Philoctetes club on Wednesday evening and tonight. He may not have Myerson's … _connections_ , but he does have Debrett’s which had informed him of Myerson's Hungarian ancestry, a great-grandfather who had done well in business, a grandfather who had married into the peerage, a father who had spent his career in various government posts, and a son who had followed in his father’s footsteps. Myerson had never married and maintained bachelor lodgings in the city where he had remained throughout the war, despite his street having been bombed twice. The building where Robert had picked him up tonight showing visible signs of damage. His mother, still alive, seemed to spend much of her time in Kent with her daughter, a vicar's wife.

Robert considers all of this as he watches Myerson blissfully suck the last traces of no-longer-rationed sugar and lemon syrup from the tines of his fork. He wonders if these details matter to him because he feels compelled to situate Myerson in relation to his own social status ... or whether it is the man himself that Robert finds inexplicably compelling. He suspects the latter. Every scrap of knowledge about Myerson's past potentially sheds a bit more light on the question of _What the bloody hell Robert, Earl of Grantham, thinks he's doing with this man._

oOo

'I can't say I've met many peers of the realm who would come down to London for the sake of getting their ex-chauffeur out of a holding cell, either,' Alec observes.

Grantham shrugs, smiling. 'He was a very good chauffeur?'

The question Alec really wants to ask is _Why did you tell me all this? Why are we here?_ It wasn't as though any of the family information -- to say nothing of an excellent meal -- had been germane to the question of getting Tom Branson and his ... associate out of prison and gently pushed on the road back to Manchester. It had just sort of tumbled out of the man as they talked.

Grantham sits silently for a minute, then leans forward. 'I'm not much of a liar, to be honest. If I'd tried to bluff you, you'd've known.'

'So you took a flyer on trusting a minor civil servant?'

'Hardly minor.' Grantham sits back. 'And Hilda Pierce speaks well of you. She hardly does that of anybody.'

'I'm not sure if I'm complimented or afraid.'

Grantham laughs and Alec realizes with a faint tingle along his nerves that he'd been aiming for that; somehow, in a few hours of conversation, he's learned to like making Grantham laugh. 'Complimented, I think. I would be.'

Alec is smiling before he thinks about it -- also odd. Normally it's an expression he has to call on. But, then again, it isn't as though his daily job is rife with occasions to smile at people. 'I didn't realise I appeared so worthy of confidence. I should send myself out in the field more.'

Grantham laughs again, his eyes sparkling, his body relaxed in the chair, entirely given over to amusement, entirely here and Alec, along with the renewed sense of slight hypersensitivity that makes him want to fuss with his collar, has a dim feeling that he is in very deep trouble indeed.

The thing is, Alec has arrived where he is in life by keeping his private life very private indeed. He speaks with circumspection, even when appearing to be frank. He makes a habit of saying saying nothing that, if committed to paper, could incriminate specific people for specific illicit acts -- not any particular members of his department, much less himself.

It's been a very long time since he's even felt the urge to commit illicit acts, speak incriminating words. He's left that dangerous business to reckless whippersnappers like Valentine and the career girls like Miss Pierce who know how to fold secrets away in their pocket handkerchiefs and never bring them back into the light -- souls of discretion.

And then there's bloody Foyle.

He'd let Miss Pierce recruit Christopher Foyle knowing they'd have to allow him a free hand because it was the only hand the man was willing to play. Try and bring him to heel and he only doubled down, sometimes undoing years of careful cross and counter-cross in the pursuit the high-mind brand of justice Foyle felt was his own personal responsibility to enforce throughout the entire British Empire.

The thing was, they couldn't afford _not_ to bring the man on because he got results of the right sort. And, precisely because the man loved a good scene, they could push him into resigning or stalking out with steam coming out of his ears -- and then settle in to wait until he finished the job.

"Steps will be taken to ensure such a breach of protocol never happens as we move forward, Prime Minister," Alec has assured Downing Street more than once. "I can assure you, we -- you can see from the report we submitted that he chose to act against direct orders --" once again "-- and yet he did produce the results that your office specifically requested. In this instance we feel it best to -- a strong warning, yes sir, for a man with a long history of service to the crown. Yes sir."

It had taken Alec nearly a year to realize that the bad taste in his mouth after these exchanges had nothing to do with the polite, transparent fictions of expedient bureaucracy but with the fact that Foyle _didn't actually care_. That he didn't _have_ to care. He was a retired Detective Chief Superintendent who went home most weekends to domestic bliss with an up and coming Detective Chief Inspector (oh, let's be honest here, they were discreet but hardly subtle if you knew what you were looking for).

The taste in Alec’s mouth was _envy_ is what it was. Envy that a man, roughly his contemporary, was presumably committing acts on a regular basis that Alec had denied himself for years -- for a _lifetime_ \-- in the name of his career, his country, his family, his freedom. He'd made the sacrifices expected of him, sacrifices he’d believed were necessary. And yet here he was edging near retirement in a bachelor flat off the Piccadilly line while Foyle has tossed out the rule book and found ... well. Paul Milner. Not to put too fine a point on it.

oOo

Robert leans back in his chair and watches Myerson think. He may not be a professional intelligence gatherer, but he can tell when someone's mulling something over and he lets the silence linger, broken only by the soft movements of the waiter removing dishes and the occasional laugh from another table.

The two days between their evening at the club and now had given him his chance to think; the least he could do was to oblige Myerson with the same.

Robert knows perfectly well he is not a brilliant man; his intuition has never been flawless. But he feels -- hopes -- he makes up for slowness with sheer determination to understand. If there was a difficulty in front of him, then by God, he was going to understand what it was and how to cope with it if it took a year.

He also knows he has been very lucky to have people around him his whole life who didn't _need_ the year to take a decision: his mother, his wife, his daughters, now his son-in-law. He's learned to rely on them in some things -- almost anything to do with the estate, for example -- but there are other things with which they can be of no help.

Illicit activities in London are certainly in the latter category.

He's faintly surprised to have come to his own conclusions so quickly. Perhaps it's the post-war euphoria still lingering in London, the sudden release from daily stress and danger; perhaps he's responding to something that runs in his family. Given his mother's recent behavior -- the last postcard from her and Isobel had come on Tuesday from Addis Ababa -- that's certainly as good a guess as any.

As he watches Myerson study the last bite of crêpe as if it were some secret code he needed to break, he feels slightly sorry for them both. If they were different men and in a different place, this could all be much simpler. But, working within the restrictions they are under, he feels this isn't going badly.


End file.
